


Still

by Spludge237



Category: Blaseball (Video Game)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-09
Updated: 2021-03-09
Packaged: 2021-03-15 17:21:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 436
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29936805
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Spludge237/pseuds/Spludge237
Summary: Stephanie Winters is shelled and talking aloud.
Relationships: Summers Preston/Stephanie Winters
Comments: 1
Kudos: 5





	Still

Are you there?

I mean, I know you’re not. No one is. Here, it is just me. But are you?

It’s weird in in here. I’m not sure if I’ve slept. Not sure if I need to. Not sure if I can. Everywhere I look, every which way, the dull brown of the shell. Time passes differently. Or doesn’t. I can’t tell. My watch isn’t visible with how I’m contorted in here.

I’m not sure how I ended up in here. Why I ended up in here. That bastard legume is dead; the squid saw to it. I was pitching game three of the the Sports/Butt memorial series in Chicago, and halfway through the game Peanutiel Duffy was at the plate and just looked at me. Or through me. And then I was here. Am here.

I hate him. You’d tell me not to; that it isn’t his fault, that the forces beyond our comprehension that twist the fates to tragedy are to blame, that he is as much the victim as I am. But you’re not here.

Are you?

I haven’t lost all perception of the goings on outside this tiny world. I felt the shell being moved. Vibrations, as if it were being hit by a bat. Another sound, more metallic, sharper. Fran? Maybe. I can feel something at my left hand; is that a blaseball bat? Am I a batter now? Have I changed? Has anything else changed? Have you changed? Are you still out there?

Are you?

My knee hurts. You’ve always been so good to me, helping keep it at the right… temperature? Humidity? Sorry I didn’t pay more attention. But you always had it just right. Now it aches. An old wound reminding me of a new one. In here, it’s warm, and musty, and a little too humid, and I can feel the shell, but also not feel it, and it’s too quiet.

Too Still.

I know you’re not here. I can’t feel you. I can always feel you, could always feel you. A soft zephyr against my check. The wind at my back on my way to the game. The soft hum of the air when I’m on the mound, just before I pitch. The comforting breeze when I thought I had blown the championship game, letting me know that you’d take care of it. The fierce, passionate gale that night, alone, in our room.

Gods, I need you, Summers. I can’t do this without you. Won’t do this without you. Refuse to do this without you. Are you there? Please, baby, I need you.

Are you?


End file.
